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SCL Chapter 61: No Such Thing as Coincidence
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 02:31:51 +0000 UTC“We need some guides.”
Augustus took a few steps forward, his boots crunching into the snow-covered ground. The only sounds in his ears were the whirring of his servo system and the howling wind outside his helmet. Their drop zone was an open patch of land outside the refugee camp—no cover, just piles of trash and coal cinders.
“Find them.”
The marines behind him immediately split into two squads, sweeping into the camp from both sides. They moved between buildings, flashlights cutting through the thick darkness with piercing brightness.
Zander and Raynor had fallen into the hands of a local gang. They could be executed at any moment. Augustus didn’t have time to grab a loudspeaker and politely ask who was willing to assist the Federal Marine Corps.
Screams and shouts erupted from the nearby shacks but quickly died down. Minutes later, Augustus’s Heaven’s Devils returned with several men bundled in heavy coats and long, padded jackets.
“We’re the Federal Marines, here to eliminate the gang presence in this area. I am Sergeant Mengsk. If any of you can provide intelligence on the gangs, I swear in the name of Jesus Christ that you’ll be able to return to your homes safely,” Augustus said, eyes steady on the refugees in front of him.
“As thanks, my soldiers will give you emergency rations and clean water.”
“I know... I know something…” they all blurted out, talking over one another in a rush.
“You,” Augustus said, pointing to one of them. “You speak first.”
“There’s only one major gang here. They call themselves the Free Revolutionary Army,” said a man in a threadbare overcoat.
“Sounds impressive, but that’s not important,” Augustus cut him off. “Tell me how many of them there are, and where their base is.”
“They’ve got around two hundred men. Some of them wear armor—just like yours,” the frostbitten man replied, sucking in icy air between words as though recalling a terrifying memory.
“Their base isn’t here,” he continued. “They mainly operate out of Finner's Crossing. It’s a small town about eleven kilometers from here.”
“You know exactly where in Finner's Crossing their base is located?” Augustus asked, though he didn’t hold out much hope.
Still, what he learned was valuable: this gang might have ties to the Kel-Morian Combine—or even to rogue elements within the Federation’s own military. At this stage of the war, it was extremely rare for civilian militias to get their hands on powered armor.
Even though Finner's Crossing was just a small town, its population had already surpassed 50,000. It had sprung up around a rare mineral deposit, and for three generations, its residents had survived by mining—descending into the shafts day after day.
Augustus realized that asking General Warfield for an extra platoon had been the right decision. His usual caution had paid off.
“I don’t know, sir,” the refugee said. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Anyone else know more?” Augustus asked, scanning the group.
“No one knows exactly where the Free Revolutionary Army’s headquarters is—they’ve made plenty of enemies,” another refugee chimed in. “But if you catch one of their lieutenants, everything else will fall into place.”
“All of their members are locals from Finner's Crossing. Their boss is a guy named Silas Trask. He’s easy to spot—he always wears a gold necklace and a gold watch, and he loves showing off in a convertible Terra hovercar.”
“Hm...” Augustus nodded, then waited a moment. When no one else spoke, he said, “Understood. Heck!”
At his command, Corporal Heck, leader of Second Squad, stepped forward and handed each informant an M2 backpack filled with food and water.
Augustus wasn’t about to hand out too much. The camp was surrounded by starving refugees—hunger and desperation could turn them into monsters.
By the time Lundstein returned with First Squad, Tychus and Harnack were right behind him.
“Boss, thank God—I finally found you…” Harnack panted, out of breath from running.
"Did you get anything out of them?" Tychus asked, pointing at the fleeing refugees.
"We might need to pay a visit to Finner's Crossing," Augustus replied. "Jim and Zander may not be there, but as long as we tear this gang out by the roots, it’ll be worth it."
"Actually, I might know where they are." Tychus grinned smugly, pulling up his personal terminal. The screen displayed a blurry satellite map, with a red line snaking between two points.
"You planted a tracker on the truck," Augustus said, eyes lighting up. "Nice work, Tychus. But I don’t get why you’d do that—unless you suspected an ambush from the start."
"Better safe than sorry. After slogging through the military for over a decade, you pick up a few tricks," Tychus chuckled. "I noticed someone tailing us early on. No way those bastards would’ve known that one of the trucks had a satellite tracker no bigger than a fingernail hidden in the bed seam."
"But let me give you a word of caution," he added with a faint note of melancholy. "Always prepare for the worst. Those two might already be dead. We could just be going there to collect their bodies."
"Ah… I’ll miss Jim. Kid was still young. Never thought he’d go before an old bastard like me."
"Let’s not count him out yet." Augustus waved a hand, and his troops began marching toward the descending transport ship.
"Jim and Zander were probably marked the moment they bought food in Howe Town. They spent too much money at once, and the road to the refugee camp is long and exposed—impossible not to draw attention."
"But maybe that actually saved them," Augustus continued. "If the gang saw them as wealthy, they’d want time to torture them for bank passwords, maybe even try to extort their families for ransom."
"Let’s move. Need a gun?"
"What, you expect me to bite the enemy’s ass off with my teeth?" Tychus growled, baring his teeth in a wicked grin.
"I thought you didn’t want to come," Augustus said with a smirk, tossing his rifle to Tychus and grabbing a shotgun from Lundstein.
"Damn it all... After buying food, they blew through every last credit. And those two trucks—they were rented! Who the hell knows how much I’ll have to pay in damages!" Tychus’s heart ached. That, in truth, was why he’d installed the tracker—he was afraid of losing them.
"And now I won’t be seeing Kreina, Susan, Mitty, or Ansofit from Orley Town for at least two weeks!"
"..."
Slinging his electromagnetic rifle over his shoulder, Tychus muttered as he followed Augustus up the boarding ramp of the transport, "Got a cigar?"
"No. You know I don’t smoke."
"Hold it in, then."
…
Wayne Ranch — 5 kilometres north of Finner's Crossing.
The ranch was once used by locals to raise Turaxis reindeer—beasts that fed on the thorny shrubs of the planet’s subpolar zones, but looked more like four-legged reptiles than any real deer.
Now long abandoned, the fenced-in field had been repurposed. It was lit brightly by rows of prefab housing and reinforced concrete buildings—around a dozen of them. Gang members armed with electromagnetic rifles paced between the structures, keeping watch.
Behind one of the four-story concrete buildings was a ten-meter-deep circular pit, its walls and floor lined with solid concrete. At the bottom were two figures—Raynor and Zander, the very men who had been kidnapped. Above, four or five gang members loomed near the edge of the pit, watching.
“It’s twenty below zero now, gentlemen,”
Silas Trask stood at the rim, smiling down at his 'guests'. Unlike his usual gaudy attire, today he wore only a worn-out fur coat. His greasy hair hung limp across his forehead.
Trask was a clever man. Nearly everyone believed the Free Revolutionary Army’s headquarters was located inside Finner's Crossing—but that was just a smokescreen. In reality, he maintained five different bases.
"If I dump a bucket of water on you, you’ll lose an arm or a leg to frostbite," Trask said coldly. "You’d better give me the rest of your account numbers and passwords."
"We’ve already given you all our bank accounts and passwords," Raynor replied, patting his pockets with exaggerated theatrics.
"We don’t have any money."
"You’re lying!" Trask suddenly roared. "No one would spend all their money just to buy food for a bunch of random refugees!"
"That’s impossible!"
"Mr. Raynor," he said again, voice tightening, "my patience is running out."
"I don’t know what you expect to get out of a broke guy like me," Raynor said. "I’m so poor I’m down to my last pair of pants."
"If I were a company boss, I’d be the kind who couldn’t even afford to pay his employees."
"You talk a good game, Mr. Raynor, heh..." Trask sneered, though he was slowly coming to accept the reality—Raynor really was flat broke. The realization filled him with boiling rage.
"I know you two are marines, but don’t think the Free Revolutionary Army is scared of a couple of Federal lapdogs! Marines? Don’t make me laugh! You're nothing but trash!"
"The world belongs to the workers. The world belongs to Kel-Moria!"
